Matter of Time
by Pet Me Feed Me
Summary: In which Abbie finally takes time off of running her mentor's old bakery to visit her sister in Boston, meets an odd, forward, history professor, and quite inadvertently becomes the star of her very own romantic comedy. Ichabbie, AU with no supernatural elements.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I am breaking my years-long fanfic hiatus for Sleepy Hollow. What can I say; this series has me feeling some kind of way.

**Chapter One **

Abbie has never relied much on fate because she knows that it is not on her side. Born in the municipal housing projects on the edge of East Louis, she comes into the world ill, black, female, and poor, a bum ticket in the genetic lottery. She spends four days in the NICU under a bright UV light until her skin loses its yellow hue, swaddled in pink blankets. When she finally comes home, it takes her father about one week to decide that he's not actually up to fatherhood and leave her life forever. Her mother has Jenny two years later by a short-lived boyfriend who balked when she'd announced she wasn't getting an abortion, and so for all intents and purposes, Abbie grows up as a statistic, another faceless, fatherless, future-less inner city criminal-to-be or welfare queen.

For the years that she and Jenny have her, their mother tries to shield them from the rhetoric about what they are supposed to be. She gets her daughters into a small charter school, and takes them to Bible study twice a week. They sing hymns and do math homework and get lectured and live quiet lives, and everything is quite good until their mother gets sick.

It's not a body sickness, it's a head sickness, and it sets in suddenly and without warning. One minute her mother is herself- soft-spoken, Bible-thumping, earnest and honest, and the next she is confused and angry, bursting suddenly into targeted bouts of rage that leave blossoms of bruises down twelve-year old Abbie's arms and sides. Jenny watches from the shadows and talks of running away when they turn in for the night, but Abbie holds fast- this isn't their mother, she will get better.

She doesn't. One day at school her counselor is softly informing her that what her mother is doing is abuse, and the next she and her sister are being shuttled to a strange home in west county by a gruff older woman who tells them she's their social worker.

Abbie has always been adaptable, and she quietly fits into her new high school and foster family with ease. The McGees are an old couple who've been fostering for years and don't try talking to the Mills' sisters, and Abbie is an excellent fit because she does not want to talk. Jenny, however, still craves her mother's love, and when she doesn't get it from stern, uninterested Mrs. McGee, begins to "act out." She gets into a few fights and is suspended a few times, but the coup de grace comes when Jenny takes one of Mrs. McGee's ugly crystal doves and pawns it off to buy an MP3 player. They take Jenny away, then. When given the choice, Abbie decides not to go with her. She and Jenny don't talk for six years after that.

(When they find each other again, the first thing Jenny does is slap her across the face, so hard that Abbie has to blink the lights out of her eyes. The second thing she does is cry and hold her close. "You left me," she says, and Abbie can't respond, because she did leave her. She did.

But she won't do it again. Not ever.)

Abbie goes rogue for the months following Jenny's departure. She doesn't steal from the McGees- she's smarter than that- but she takes from pretty much everyone else- drugstores, her fellow classmates, clothing boutiques. She dates scumbag guys on purpose, fucks them in public restrooms during school hours just to build a reputation, and smokes away hundreds of dollars of their money in way too much shitty weed. Her grades slip from Bs and As to Ds and Fs.

Only one person notices or cares about her steady downfall- Mr. Corbin, her grizzled sixth period English teacher. He doesn't say that he cares, per se, just tells her that she won't graduate if she fails his class and offers extra credit in the form of hours worked at his family's cozy bakery in the Grove. At first, Abbie scoffs- "so basically, you're tryna make me do free labor?"- but the thought of going through all of what she has- watching her mother fight to get her into a decent elementary school, leaving Jenny behind- and then not graduating is unthinkable, and so she eventually relents.

She doesn't have a car, so Mr. Corbin takes her to work every day after school, and uses the fifteen minute drive to talk to her. Their conversation is one-sided at first, mostly Corbin rambling about the bakery and his grown up children and trying to probe her about details of her life, but she warms up to him quickly. He becomes more of a father to her than her real father probably ever would have been.

She enjoys working at the bakery, a cozy little hipster haven called Crumptious. They try her out in the kitchens at first, where she fails spectacularly at everything other than washing dishes and prepping ingredients. Then she becomes the bakery's receptionist, answering phones, taking orders, organizing catering events. After the first month, she gets a surprise pay check and decides to stay on.

Crumptious does decently enough, but not nearly as well as some of the other confectionaries in the area. Corbin and his wife, Patricia, are completely puzzled by this- Crumptious has the advantage of age; it's been around for generations and thus has decent name representation, and the goods aren't half bad. It is Abbie who notes that they need to corner a particular niche to draw customers in- "take a classic and make it the best in town, or make something new and weird, like the Cronut"- and it is Abbie who suggests they come up with a product that captures the hominess of Corbin's favorite dessert, apple pie a la mode. Their pastry chef creates a delicious confection that is part creme puff part apple crisp, and the response is so overwhelmingly positive that they have to hire more workers.

Corbin stops teaching the next year to focus full-time on the business. Abbie stops living with her foster family and moves in with the Corbins, checking in periodically with the McGees when social workers drop by to pay her a visit. Abbie gets way into religious studies and American history and considers leaving the shop to go to school for it, but a semester at Mizzou proves to her that college really isn't her thing, so she becomes strongly acquainted with the local libraries and museums instead. Corbin hires a cute new assistant pastry chef, Luke, and Abbie has a perfectly healthy, perfectly normal relationship with him that eventually fizzles but ends amicably. Abbie becomes the de facto owner of the shop when the Corbins retire, and the actual owner when an aneurism takes her only mentor and father figure from her. Patricia hands her the keys and deeds at the end of the funeral, the silent tears still drying on her cheeks, and moves down to Tampa. Abbie is twenty-four, and bears his death and their gift with gritted teeth, and promises to make the shop legendary.

When Abbie looks back at her life now, she recognizes that it could have gone a lot worse. She met the right people at the right time, and grew because of it. But she refuses to call it fate. Calling it fate would mean that she would have to accept her hardships as ordained, that she would have to look at her mother, grey from battling demons in a psych ward, and say that she was unwell because God wished it. So she calls it life instead, and tries not to think about the influence of cosmic forces.

Until she meets Crane.

Jenny invites Abbie to her housewarming party. She's recently landed a solid job training security guards in self-defense, and wants Abbie to meet her new girlfriend, a fiery hot redhead who looks like a guest star on Gossip Girl. There's only one problem- the new girlfriend, new apartment and her petulant little sister are all in Boston. And the party is in four days.

Abbie takes a week away from the bakery, leaves Luke in charge, and drops absurd amounts of coin to book a seat on a two-way nonstop flight to Boston. She's certain Jenny is going out of her way to inconvenience her, but she doesn't complain- she can never completely atone for leaving her only surviving family in the dust.

The flight is delayed for inclement weather. The plane to Boston is expected to land at the gate three hours late. Abbie wrings her hands. She had arrived at the airport two hours before scheduled takeoff- just in case- and Lambert International's dearth of outlets and lack of free wi-fi is going to make the unexpected three hour wait a painful experience. She sighs, her annoyance lost among the disgruntled groans from the other passengers, and pops in her earbuds. It doesn't take long for her eyelids to shutter, and she closes herself off from the hustle and bustle of the airport terminal.

"Is anyone sitting here?"

Abbie barely hears the request over Miguel's hypnotic voice. She turns the music down quickly and flashes the other passenger an apologetic smile.

"Sorry," she says, shifting her bag out of the seat beside her.

"Not a problem," the man says, and it's not until she notices the crisp, Oxfordian lilt of his accent that she actually looks at him.

He is certainly attractive, though terribly far from her type. A white boy, for starters, and tall and slender to boot. She's always been drawn to shorter, browner, sturdier men, like Luke, who can throw her over his shoulder with ease and kiss her without folding himself in half. It's hard to look away from this man, though, and she can't tell why. He's beautiful, almost delicate, and she feels an inexplicable urge to run her nails along his trimmed beard. His eyes are pale blue and fiendishly bright, and he's got his shampoo-model-fresh shoulder length hair half-pulled up.

"- troublesome stuff."

Abbie blinks owlishly. She's been so busy ogling this guy that she hadn't even noticed he'd been talking to her.

"Sorry," she says again, plucking out her earbuds, "What was that?"

The man arches a brow in a way that reminds her of stiff period dramas. "I was only saying that there are apparently some troublesome storms brewing in Chicago. They're keeping the plane from leaving."

"Is that so."

"It seems as such." He gives an all-suffering sigh. "I was so hoping to leave this dreary city."

So he's one of those; a coaster, in the Midwest to observe the simple ways of its people and scuttle back to the water after he feels entertained. She should have been able to tell, what with his slightly unbuttoned chambray shirt and brown leather boots and antiquated, pretentious-as-hell manner of speech.

He must see the disdain in her face, because he backpedals dramatically.

"Oh, excuse me, you're from here, aren't you? Oh dear. I'm truly sorry; I didn't mean to offend."

"You haven't offended me," she says, although she is lying just a little. "St. Louis isn't exactly the most riveting place."

"It was...inappropriate, nonetheless. I've been spoiled by large metropolitan areas, I'm afraid." He pauses, extends a hand. "My name is Crane. Ichabod Crane."

Abbie regards his hand warily at first; after all, it's a little odd for him to be introducing himself to a random woman in an airport, but he's so earnest that she eventually takes it.

"Abbie Mills."

"Miss Mills," he says her name like he is tasting it. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

They burn through an hour with inane small talk. Crane is an assistant professor in the History Department of Brown University, and moved to the United States only a year ago after completing his doctorate at Oxford. Abbie listens with wide eyes and wonders how he's pulling off sounding both boastful and bashful about his credentials without making her want to strangle him. He's traveling across the United States in a last ditch effort to see some sights before work ties him down; she's off to Boston to see her sister. He cannot for the life of him understand St. Louis' obsession with Imo's pizza, and Abbie admits that neither can she. She tells him about Crumptious. He is strangely curious about the inner workings of managing businesses, and though she's aware that he might just be asking so many questions to keep her attention, it's refreshing to talk about something that is not the baked goods themselves for once.

Abbie is still snickering and shaking her head from something particularly foolish Crane has said when he arches his brow so high that it nearly disappears into his hairline and asks if she would "like to play a little game."

"It will require that we explore your homely little airport some," he warns.

Against her better judgment, Abbie agrees. Crane manages to convince the gate agent to watch their bags for them (watching him schmooze up to her is a little sickening, though Abbie can't argue with his results) and then turns to her, practically bouncing on his heels, and offers his arm.

"You're kidding," Abbie says, chuckling. This is easily the most unorthodox way that a man has ever tried to hit on her.

"Indulge me?" He says beseechingly. When she answers with more laughter but no arm, his lips quirk in a smirk, and he drops down to a knee dramatically in the middle of the terminal. All conversation around them comes to halt, the sudden silence loud and obstructive. Crane cradles her small hand in his larger one reverently, his fingers applying just enough pressure to keep hers aloft. He stares intensely at the knob of her wrist, and then his eyes trail up slowly and lock on hers.

The air is suddenly charged, and Abbie is reminded, out of nowhere, that she hasn't gotten laid in eight months.

"Crane," Abbie growls, and then to the stunned crowd of people eagerly waiting for the guy she just met an hour ago to pop the question, "Really, nothing to see here, honest, he's just playing around!"

"I only ask for your hand," Crane says playfully. She snatches it back and saunters away from him and from gate A17, and she can almost hear the disappointed groans of her fellow, drama-hungry passengers. 'Though a marriage proposal would have done wonders to lighten the mood.'

She can hear Crane's footsteps behind her, light and not at all ashamed. If she adds a little swing to her hips as she goes, well, it's because she's a pretty young woman who has every right to work what she's got. It has nothing at all to do with the fact that she can almost feel his eyes on her ass.

"Miss Mills-" Crane tries.

"You planning to follow me to the bathroom, Crane?" She says, not turning around. Her heart is fluttering with excitement, and she recognizes the feeling as something she hasn't felt since early high school, when she'd finally chocked up the courage to talk to the first guy she liked. She's giddy. It's heady, and she likes it.

'I'm going crazy.'

Crane catches up to her in a few long strides.

"I am not," he explains, "I just wanted to say...that I did not mean to offend. I'm afraid I've been unusually forward-"

"Huh, hadn't noticed-"

"- but I, thus far, have enjoyed your company immensely, and I would be quite sorry if you could not say the same of mine."

Abbie stops so abruptly that Crane nearly runs into her. He looks genuinely nervous, and he leans down earnestly as he looks at her, his arms folded behind his back. She gives him what she hopes is a measured, critical look, though she can feel a smile edging through.

"I'm going to pee," she says slowly, like she's talking to a child, "and when I come back, you can continue to 'enjoy my company.' Okay?"

"By all means, do your business," he says, gesturing sweepingly towards the women's bathroom.

When Abbie comes back, she finds Crane dutifully waiting for her at the opposite wall, arms folded across his chest. He lifts his head, and the corners of his mouth turn downwards in a half-smile.

"Shall we?" He says, and she nods, following him into a standard souvenir shop.

The rules of the game are simple; find the tackiest product possible in the shop, and come up with a sales pitch for it. It feels exactly like something Abbie played once with her sister, back before everything went to hell, darting through goodwill racks while their mother pilfered for cute clothes for their endlessly growing bodies.

Crane goes first. He snatches a snow globe with "St. Louis" spelled out in large red letters, a grey, imperfect Arch, and Palm trees inside of it. He shakes it up and lets the white, glittery powder settle before clearing his throat.

"As you can see here, madam," he says, his voice somehow even more British than before, "This fascinating object, a snow globe, showcases St. Louis' uncanny ability to be in all four seasons at once."

Abbie snorts, and this seems to encourage him, so he continues, blathering on about the "exquisite" handiwork and how "when you turn the globe, you can almost hear the sound of soft flakes of snow dusting the ground."

She goes next, selecting a large, teddy-bear shaped lollipop. She's not nearly as eloquent as Crane is, but she does have experience bullshitting flavors to customers, and so by the time she's finished extolling the candy for its "rosemary undertones" they are both doubled over in laughter and earning dirty looks from the lone cashier. They move their game to the next store, and then the next. Abbie's quite sure they've visited every store in the small terminal by the time they call it quits.

They end their adventure at a Dunkin donuts, popping donut holes into their mouths and grinning at each other like idiots. Crane is telling a story about the first time he rode on a plane at the ripe old age of seventeen, and describing how he was so terrified and confused that he'd ran through the wrong gate. She's not really listening to what he's saying, to be honest, just staring at his lips, his eyes, the span of his hands as he waves them about emphatically. Strange feelings are cropping up in her belly, and she wills them down. 'Three hours ago you had no idea this guy existed. Calm your teets, Abigail.'

Crane closes his mouth around his fingers, licking off the powdered sugar and humming contentedly, and the image sends a frisson of heat down her spine.

"They'll be boarding soon," she says, standing up abruptly.

"Miss Mills?" Crane says, confused. "Wouldn't they announce it if they were?"

Abbie folds her arms. "I'd like not to miss my flight, Crane. Better safe than sorry."

Abbie has never seen a grown man pout quite as petulantly as Crane is now. He throws away his empty donut hole cup and trails after her toward their gate. To Abbie's immense relief, they reach the gate just before the gate agent calls for boarding to begin. She throws an unapologetic smirk Crane's way, and gets in line when they call for group 2.

Crane steps in right behind her. "What's your seat number?"

She checks her ticket. "10A," she responds.

"Oh, a pity," Crane says. "I'm in 16B."

That sinking feeling in her gut was definitely not disappointment, she tells herself.

"Guess i'll see you in Boston, then."

"I suppose so." Just before she gets to the agent to check in, he lifts her hand to his lips, and presses them, ever so softly, just above her knuckles.

Abbie can hear her heart thrumming in her ears, like a tide ebbing in and out.

She's finished.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **My irl friend somehow remembered my fanfic handle and is now reading my fic. -_- But luckily for y'all, she'll be keeping me on my toes about updating. I expect that this fic will be about 5 chapters long.

This one's for you, Ash.

**Chapter Two**

The flight begins uneventfully. They board with ease, the pilot introduces himself over the loudspeaker, the flight attendant goes over safety rules. They are in the air within minutes, and Abbie is flipping through SkyMall idly when the flight attendant stops at her chair.

"This," she says, a conspirator's gleam in her eye, "is courtesy of 16B."

It's a flute of dry red wine, accompanied by a note written in immaculate cursive on a torn piece of notebook paper. Abbie shakes her head and lifts the glass in thanks to the attendant, and then takes a sip. For airplane wine, it isn't too bad.

_"Thank you for humoring me this afternoon, Miss Mills. It was an honor to be able to spend time with a lovely young woman as yourself. I hope our paths cross again, but to aid that, please have my phone number. If you have a minute of rest while in Boston, I would love to hear from you." _

His number is written at the bottom. Abbie stares at it mutely for a minute, and then shakes her head again.

"What a bozo," she says to herself, "I'll be seeing him when we land."

But she doesn't. They touch down in Boston and she waits for him at the entrance of the jetway, but he doesn't walk by. _He was sitting behind me, how'd he possibly get out before me?_ After the pilot exits and Crane still is nowhere to be found, she gives up.

Jenny is waiting for her at baggage claim. It's been a year since Abbie saw her last, and she isn't aware of just how much she's missed her mouthy little sister until she sees her quirk up an immaculate eyebrow in recognition. She's dressed in olive green skinnies and a black tank top, looking simple and but powerful, and her sinewy arms are folded across her chest.

"Hey sis," Jenny says, enveloping Abbie in a hug. She's a lot more solid now, all hard muscle through her tank, and Abbie feels exceptionally small in her embrace. "How was the flight?"

"Ugh...a little unorthodox," Abbie admits. "There was this guy..."

Jenny snorts. "You managed to break a heart within two hours? Still got it, huh?"

The look Abbie gives Jenny could curd butter. "It was at least three hours, and I broke no hearts." Then she smiles, a little bashfully. "I did get a number, though."

Jenny rolls her eyes, then snatches Abbie's rolling carry-on from her. Abbie doesn't protest; this is Jenny's way of trying to behave like a sister, and though she's a little rough around the edges, Abbie appreciates the effort.

"How've you been?" she asks. When Jenny offers a monosyllabic 'fine' in response, she tries something else. "How's work?"

"Got today off," Jenny informs her, then gives her a rueful look. "Just for you. Captain gave me all kinds of shit for it."

"Thought you said he was a pretty cool guy."

"Irving?" Jenny scoffs, "stick so far up his ass you can see the end of it in the back of his throat when he talks. Here, got you a Charliecard. It's replenishable, for the train. For when, you know, you come visit again."

The train ride to Jenny's apartment is quiet. There's a kid across from them blasting music through his headphones they can hear it from five feet away, and so some quirky indie pop becomes the soundtrack for Abbie's thoughts. She fingers her Charliecard and watches Jenny out of the corner of her eye and wonders when she got so strong. She remembers the old Jenny, outspoken and stubborn, but also perpetually scared, hiding behind Abbie when their mother's rage spiked, practically salivating for attention from Miss McGee, needing affirmation and love from everyone around her to feel real.

Now, she doesn't even need Abbie. Abbie isn't sure how this makes her feel.

_'You left her,'_ she reminds herself. _'Of course she doesn't need you.'_

"This stop," Jenny says, standing abruptly as the train begins to slow. Abbie hobbles to her feet, not nearly as sure-footed as her sister, and follows her out into the street.

* * *

Jenny doesn't reach for her keys when they reach her apartment, just twists the door open and steps inside. Abbie is about to chastise her for leaving her door unlocked when Jenny yells, "Kat, we're back," and she remembers the girlfriend.

Abbie hoists her bag inside and wipes her hands on her pants. Katrina is an especially unnerving addition to her sister's life. Abbie doesn't have a problem with Jenny dating a woman, but she'd felt even shittier when her sister had told her about Katrina and Abbie realized she hadn't even been there to help her sister work through her sexuality or even start dating. Katrina probably knows more about her sister than she does, and this makes her intimidating.

Footsteps sound from across the apartment, and Katrina appears in the doorway between the living room and the rest of the apartment. She's pretty in a very British, very Lifetime movie kind of way, slim, pale, with heavily lined green eyes and a good red-violet dye job. She gives Jenny an affectionate peck on the cheek, and then turns to Abbie.

"It's lovely to meet you, Abbie." She's just as British as she looks. _They must be taking over Boston._

Abbie takes the hand offered her and shakes it.

"How was your flight?" Katrina asks, taking one of Abbie's bags before she can protest and walking toward what Abbie presumes is the guest room.

"Fine," Abbie says cryptically, admiring the choice of clean, modern furniture as they cross the dining room. _'This is why we need an Ikea in St. Louis.'_

"Fine is right," Jenny pipes up from behind them. "Fine like that man whose digits you snagged, huh."

"Oh?" Katrina says, doing the same annoying thing Jenny does with her eyebrows when she's trying to pry, "Do tell."

Abbie wants to tell them that they're being high-schoolers, that it really isn't a big deal at all, that she's far too old to be getting giggly about flirting with a random guy in an airport, but both Katrina and Jenny are looking at her expectantly, and she comes to the rather startling realization that whether or not she decides to indulge them will set the tone for the rest of her stay.

And that it's highly unlikely that either Jenny or Katrina actually care about some rando and are taking advantage of a juicy way to break the ice.

"Okay," Abbie says, "let me get my shoes off."

This seems to appease both women, and so Abbie gets an extra couple of minutes to gather her bearings in the guest bedroom. She takes off her boots slowly, places them at the foot of the bed, and then turns to the mirror. She looks pretty decent considering how bone tired she feels, and her eyeliner lasted the flight without so much as a smudge.

When she emerges, Abbie finds the girls sitting in the living room. Katrina has her hair balled up into a bun on the top of her head, and Jenny is squeezing it playfully, taunting her about her "white girl in Starbucks look" in hushed tones. They giggle, and then Katrina sees Abbie looking and gestures her over.

"You took your time taking your shoes off there," Katrina notes archly, folding her legs under her bottom on the sofa.

"They were tricky shoes," Abbie says with a shrug.

There's a pot of green tea on the table- Jenny's really been in bougie hipster land for too long because it's the loose leaf, brewed in a ceramic pot kind- and three cute, small mugs with cat whiskers and noses on them. Abbie curls into the couch opposite them and helps herself to a cup.

"So, you were swept off your feet by a gentleman at the airport? What'd he look like? You still into the army type?"

Abbie rolls her eyes; Jenny had met Luke when they'd first started dating and spent half a day at the bakery sprawled over the display case taunting him. "No. He wasn't my type. A little scrawny, actually. And, um, tall. Like at least six feet?"

Jenny is grinning like a shark now.

"Could you see his face from all the way down in the valleys?"

"You're funny," Abbie says, sipping from her cat mug, "Really, it wasn't a big deal. They told us the flight was delayed. He sat down next to me, we started talking. After a bit, he wanted to explore, so we went through the terminal and messed around in some of the shops."

Katrina's eyebrows are almost in her hair. "Messed around?" She says primly, eyes batting innocently.

Abbie has to pull back on the vicious glare she knows she's throwing Katrina's way. She tells them in scant detail about the game she played with Crane, the glass of wine he sent her when they were in the air, his silly mock proposal in the middle of the gate. She intentionally does not mention that last kiss, that brush of his lips against her knuckles; that somehow feels too intimate to disclose. She can feel the heat in her face when she's done, her story rife with "it really wasn't a big deal"s and "this is silly, but"s. Her sister and her girlfriend are both giving Abbie bemused looks.

"What did you say his name was?" Katrina says, smiling.

"I didn't. It was a weird name. Crane. Um... Ichabod Crane."

Katrina's smile slips. It only lasts a fraction of a second, and she quickly recovers by taking a hearty sip of her tea, but Abbie is good at reading people and Katrina is an open book. She looks at her a little longer, wondering if she imagined it.

"You should call him," Jenny is saying, and Abbie's gaze drifts over to her sister. "It won't hurt."

"It's pointless," Abbie says with a shrug. "I'm going back to St. Louis in a week. He's got a job here. Nothing can come of it."

"Invite him to the housewarming, then."

The suggestion seems to come out of nowhere. Katrina takes another long draught of tea again, staring at both of them from over the rim with wide, innocent eyes. She lowers the cup and smiles, looking from Jenny to Abbie almost beseechingly.

"There's no pressure, there'll be lots of people, and you'll be able to talk to him. It won't even be strange to ask."

Jenny thinks about this for a second, and then nods. "That's actually brilliant," she said. "Honestly, though, when was the last time you went on a date?"

Abbie doesn't answer. She hasn't been with anyone since Luke, and they broke up two and a half years ago. The last real date she went on was eight months ago. It's nothing to be ashamed of- she's had serious stuff to deal with, like, well, managing a small business and dealing with the death of one of the few people she truly trusted- but she steels herself for the inevitable "having a partner will enrich your life" speech her happily paired girlfriends like to give her every chance they get.

It doesn't come, thankfully. Her sister skips right to the action. "It's done, then," Jenny says, her grin growing feral. "You call him and invite him over. Easy."

She thinks of refusing, but Jenny looks suspiciously earnest, so Abbie laughs, shakes her head, and gives in.

"Sure. I guess it can't hurt."

* * *

Abbie does not call Crane, but not out of intransigence. She barely gets a minute to breathe the next day, and it simply slips her mind. Both Jenny and Katrina have to go into work the next day, and so Abbie, not really fancying the idea of lounging alone in the apartment all day doing jack shit, offers to go buy food and supplies for the party. Jenny agrees, gives her a list, the spare key, and rough directions for the train, and sends her on her way.

She gets decorations first, loading up a tote bag with colorful napkins, tablecloths, and candles. Then, it's across the city on the 'T' to get to assorted stores, where she puts in catering orders for various desserts and tries to keep her face level when she sees the prices. She's very thankful that she wore her sneakers today instead of her boots, and even more thankful for her Google maps app.

After six hours, Abbie is beat, and walks into an ice cream shop to treat herself. There's a decent line, and she uses the time to contemplate the flavors. She decides on her usual in the end anyway- chocolate chip cookie dough, two scoops- and is accepting her waffle cone excitedly when an alarmingly familiar voice stops her in her tracks.

"Miss Mills?"

Abbie swings around so quickly that she almost loses her ice cream. She corrects herself, adjusts her bags onto the crooks of her arms, and looks up.

"Crane?" She gasps. And it is him, green shirt open at the chest, sleeves rolled up, hair down, eyes twinkling with mirth. "Hey. Whoa. Sorry, I, um...wow."

He looks good, like a particularly clean pirate. And she's standing here in her rattiest converse, looking overwhelmed and trying to carry twenty pounds of supplies while eating an ice cream cone.

"Yes, it is quite a pleasant surprise," he says with a chuckle. "It looks like you've been quite busy," he says, gesturing to her bags.

"My sister is throwing a housewarming party," Abbie explains, and then, before she can change her mind, "which, by the way, I was going to tell you about, seeing as I have your number and everything."

Crane's brow lifts. "Ah, yes," he says, a little stiffly.

Abbie's face softens. "Thank you for the wine," she says, "and the conversation. You should come to the party, if you've got time. Saturday, at 7? Or will you be too busy doing professor-things?"

Crane seems to consider her invitation for a moment, but Abbie isn't really fooled; he's going to make it. He looks down at her from the corner of his eye and says, a tad melodramatically, "I suppose I can clear up my schedule..."

Abbie rolls her eyes and begins to walk away. "I'm finding a table," she explains.

"Ah," he says, turning to the menu at last.

"Join me when you're done?" She calls over her shoulder.

He nods once, the corners of his lips curling up, and finds Abbie's round table a few minutes later, a cup of pale green ice cream in hand.

"Pistachio," Crane offers, when Abbie gives it a questioning look. "So, how has your Boston stay been thus far?"

"Busy," she says. "My sister's put me to work, as you can see."

"I do see," he peers around her into the bags, "Are those...streamers?"

Abbie pulls a roll of pale blue streamer paper out of the tote bag. "Yeah...I think my sister doesn't really know how to throw adult parties yet. She wanted balloons and everything. What the heck though, it'll be fun. We'll only be young once, or whatever the saying is."

Crane laughs. They eat their ice cream in relative silence, and Abbie giggles when Crane gets a little overzealous and ends up smudging green ice cream onto his nose. When the ice cream is gone, they talk some more- Crane is developing his lesson plans for the next semester and wearing himself out with boredom, and has recently adopted a dog. Abbie informs him that she is very much a cat person, and they launch into an impassioned argument (which Abbie swears she wins) about the benefits of living with a canine or feline companion.

Talking to Crane is so easy. He's intelligent, a little arrogant, but so respectful of her- he seeks approval like a puppy but doesn't make assumptions about her, her thoughts, or her life. He listens to her. She barely started her bachelors and he's got a PhD, but he never once seems to doubt or question her intellectual ability; rather, he seems fascinated by what he can learn from her. He's obviously much better versed in his American history than she is, but she's got him down as far as religious studies goes, and she finally, finally has someone to listen her yabber on about the sociocultural context of Biblical passages and actually offer intelligent feedback.

Quite accidentally, they keep talking until after the sun sets and it gets dark.

"Crap," Abbie says, noting the time, "I should've been gone, like, two hours ago."

"How'd you get here?" Crane asks, pulling out a pocket watch of all things to check the time.

"On the train," Abbie says.

"I'll drive you home, then," Crane offers.

Abbie's response is automatic. "You really don't have to-"

His fingers ghost over the back of her hand on the table, so gently that Abbie might not have noticed if she wasn't so attuned to his touch.

"Nonsense," he says softly, "if it weren't for me, you would have been gone and on your way hours ago. I'm parked quite close." He pauses. "Though, I do understand... we have only known each other very briefly, if you are worried for your safety-"

"I trust you, Crane," Abbie interrupts, because it is, bizarrely, true.

_'Its you you should be worried about.'_ In an enclosed space, Abbie cannot be sure that she will leave his dignity intact.

Parking in Boston is expensive, which is why Jenny hasn't bothered to get a car, but Crane apparently has a parking pass from his institution and is parked close by. They walk in purposeful silence to his unimposing Toyota. He takes two of the bags from her hands and helps her arrange them in the backseat, and then opens the passenger door for her. She gives him a disapproving look, but slides in regardless.

"Where are we going?" Crane asks, clipping his seat belt smoothly. Abbie gives him the address, and they glide out of the parking lot with ease. She notes that Crane doesn't use a map, or even a gps, but when she asks him about it he's able to describe the area around Jenny's apartment complex far better than she could have.

"Eidetic memory," he calls it. Abbie just shakes her head.

The radio is turned on to a classical music station. They drive in comfortable silence for a while, and when they do speak, it's idle chitchat, easy and unhurried. Abbie isn't sure she can handle complex thought right now anyway; her mind is too full of what-ifs, what-are-you-doings, and don't-stare-at-him-that's-weirds and has little room for any deep conversation. It's maddening. She blames it on hormones- she's been neglecting her more base needs lately- but that isn't it, exactly. Crane is special somehow. There is no logical explanation for her feelings for him- he's not the most handsome man she's dated, or even the most charismatic- but she feels them regardless.

And the fact that they've still managed to find each other in a city of millions is almost too unlikely to be a result of pure chance...

They pull up outside of Jenny's apartment within ten minutes.

"Miss Mills," Crane says, shifting the car into park.

"Mr. Crane," Abbie retorts, a challenge in her tone.

Crane responds to it. He roots her with his eyes, then waits until she's been captured by his gaze before reaching for her hand. He clasps it in his own, his thumb sweeping across her fingers in a light caress. It's somehow both very romantic and very silly, as if he's borrowing game from a Jane Austen novel.

And then his lips brush her skin and set it aflame.

_'Oh, screw it.'_

Abbie manages to unbuckle her seat in record time, and thrusts herself across the space between their seats. She doesn't clear it all the way, but Crane catches her around the waist and hefts her into his lap smoothly. Their lips meet halfway, hard and a little clumsy from disuse, but Abbie been this glad to kiss someone in a long time, and she doesn't let up. Her fingers curl into his hair, pressing his face closer to hers, and he responds by holding her closer, his arms tightening around her until their chests are flush. She had expected him to be a little bit of a hesitant kisser, but Crane is nothing of the sort- he pours everything into his kisses, takes risks, tugs on her bottom lip with his teeth and coaxes her mouth open with his tongue. He kisses like a desperate man, like he's thirsty and she's sparkling Fiji water, and it's overwhelming and beautiful and too much. She comes up for air with a gasp, arches back in an attempt to regain her sanity, but Crane follows her down, his lips latching on to her jawline and sucking slightly. Her back presses into the steering wheel, and she drags Crane back over her, reaching for his mouth again-

A loud, abrasive honk makes her jump and him rear back. It takes her a moment to realize what's happened; she's leaned back too far and pressed down on the horn. She stares at Crane with wide, petrified eyes that he mirrors. The honk seems to have jolted them back to reality and then suspended them there; she can't seem to move, let alone speak.

Then, without preamble, the trance breaks and Abbie bursts into violent peals of laughter. She's not exactly sure why, but it may be because this is the most romcom-ish thing ever to happen to her, because she's twenty-eight years old and still making out in cars a la My Big Fat Greek Wedding, and because she's somehow, despite how badly she wants this, managed to _cockblock herself_.

"Miss Mills-" Crane stammers, at a loss. She can see the guilt in his face already, and she nips it right in the bud.

"You just sucked my face off, Crane, I think you can call me Abbie," Abbie manages between chuckles, pressing her lips lightly to his to show that she's not planning to pretend this never happened. Subtly, she shifts so that she's straddling his thighs closer to his knees- the moment is over, and she's feeling a little too exposed to be that close to his crotch.

"Abbie," he acquiesces, and she wishes then that he hadn't because her name from his mouth dismantles her for a moment, "this-um... I just wanted to say-"

"Don't say anything stately like, 'I didn't intend to take advantage of you' or some other nonsense," Abbie interrupts.

Crane clamps his lips shut and smiles bashfully, avoiding her eyes.

"Because I went for you," she continues, "And I don't regret it one bit, because you're a great guy, Crane, and I think I like you, and I'm really just hoping this isn't a one time thing." It comes out in a rush. Abbie isn't good at being forthcoming-that's much more of Jenny's forte- but she's trying this time because she has nothing to lose. She's done punishing herself, done with not taking risks because reticence is easier.

Several seconds pass, and Crane doesn't even meet her eyes.

Her perch across his legs becomes unbearably uncomfortable, and her face feels hot.

"Okay," Abbie finally says stiffly. "Sorry. Let me just get my stuff-"

"Abbie-"

She starts to swing her legs over, but his hands land on her thighs and hold her there.

His blue eyes are nearly black in the darkness.

"Abbie," he repeats, and his tone turns urgent, pleading. "You're...You are leaving in a week."

Abbie stiffens.

"Yeah," she mutters, "yeah, I am." Six days, actually.

His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales carefully, as if what he is about to say next will take real effort.

"Try to understand my hesitation, then," he says. "I find you exquisite-" Abbie raises both brows high; nobody's used quite that term for her before; actually, she's pretty sure it hasn't been used to describe anyone outside of cheesy soap operas, "-and if my attraction to you was just that, I would gladly take this next week in a stride."

He pauses. She waits. It's a tactic Corbin taught her- silence makes people uncomfortable, and they'll instinctively fill it with more information if it last too long. And smart as he is, Crane is not above this. He starts again, his voice more broken, more uncertain, than before.

"But, you...I find you so very compelling. And...as you are leaving Boston, I would rather not develop, erm, any stronger feelings for you. And I fear that if we...we do _this_ again, I may not be able to help it."

Abbie blinks owlishly at him. It Is strange seeing the usually eloquent Crane trip over his words, and even stranger hearing an earnest answer from a guy she's met twice. He's right, of course. She'll be gone from his life in a flash. And this by necessity- as much as she trusts Luke to keep things under control for a little while, she also knows that Crumptious will fall apart if she extends her stay by much. She knows where her priorities lie. Corbin's legacy- her legacy now- matters exponentially more to her than the cute guy she met in Boston.

Logic has absolutely no bearing on what she wants, however. And what she wants is Crane's hands on her skin, his smiles in the moonlight.

Abbie folds her arms.

"So, you like me?"

Crane looks flummoxed by the unyielding look on her face.

"Yes, but-"

"I don't see the problem, then," Abbie interrupts. She knows she's being a bit unfair, but she can't leave this without a fight. Her gut tells her this is right, and even though she's typically the kind of person who thinks things through, she also recognizes that there's some good in acting on impulse.

Crane looks a little helpless, but his thumbs are rubbing slow, soothing circles into her thighs, and so she knows all is not lost.

"We can date while I'm here," Abbie says, "and when I go, we can decide what works best for us. If it's that we don't see each other again, and don't talk, that's fine," she notes Crane's wince, "if it's that we become friends and see each other when I come up to Boston, that's fine. And if it's...something else," she breathes, "then that's fine, too. I'm just not going to give up right away like that, not unless you actually want me to. And if you do, then okay. No contact. You know where I stand. Up to you."

Saying that Abbie is nervous would be a huge understatement. She's terrified. Not that he'll tell her that they shouldn't see each other; she's prepared for that response, almost hoping for it. But if he laughs? If he brushes her off and tells her she's being too serious? It would mean that she's misread him, that this wild, irrational feeling of belonging is one-sided. That- that would be harder to swallow.

Crane exhales in a slow sigh. His eyes haven't left hers since she began her tirade, but she's only now focusing on them. Her bottom lip threatens to tremble, so she steels her jaw and waits.

"We should try," he finally says. "I would like to try."

A relieved smile tugs at the corners of Abbie's mouth. "Okay," she says, as she bends to kiss him again.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry for the delay, guys! This chapter is, comparatively, quite a bit shorter than the others, but it cut off where it should have. :)

Chapter 3

Despite being on vacation, Abbie feels extraordinarily busy. She's here to visit Jenny, and so she plans afternoons out with her sister, watches a couple movies, plays a lot of Cards Against Humanity, and tries out weird sandwiches at her sister's favorite eateries. When she's not entertaining her snarky sister, she's washing up, exchanging her sensible, comfortable Converse for wedges and heels, and catching the next train out to wherever she and Crane are meeting for the day. It's a precarious balance, but it's a magical one as well. She's experiencing two different kinds of love at once; she and Jenny are getting along spectacularly, their interactions losing that last bit of stiffness that lingered for years after their reunion. And Crane is...well, Crane. Old-fashioned at heart, and altogether more serious about 'courting' her than she could have ever expected. Their dates consist of slow walks through rooftop gardens and clandestine kisses behind topiaries, a picnic in the public park complete with red checker blanket and a basket of sandwiches (which Crane admits to ordering from Panera), a ballroom dancing lesson that goes hilariously badly due to their insurmountable height difference, and dinner at a sushi lounge. It's a little much, but he insists on making the plans-"I'm more familiar with the area, and besides, Miss Mills, you're here for your sister, and I am already encroaching on her time with you"-and so she's a little relieved when, the day before the housewarming, he sheepishly asks whether she would just like to do wine and a movie at his place.

Her relief is twofold, of course. Abbie has had a taste of what Ichabod can give her, but he has become frustratingly gentlemanly lately. He kisses her hand and occasionally her lips, but always pulls away before she has a chance to make things more...titillating. It's all very sweet and chaste, and to an extent she appreciates it, but her blood is boiling with want and so mostly his restraint is infuriating. She finds herself behaving uncharacteristically suggestively during their time together, and even spends a couple of hours shamelessly googling "how to seduce a guy" after their ballroom dancing date. It's his fault, of course. _'Damn Crane and his graceful, long legs and stupid smirk and eyes that shouldn't even be that blue and his tendency for choosing sites in public where I can't pounce on him without frightening a few small children...'_

Crane's apartment is spartan and looks barely lived in. It has just what he needs and little else- sturdy, wooden furniture, a large, plush couch that can fit four people comfortably, a modestly-sized flat screen, a small kitchen, and a single bedroom and bath. He doesn't have any pictures on the walls, though he's painted them in warm tones so that the place doesn't feel too sterile. He informs Abbie that he hasn't brought the puppy home yet, and that it'll look a little more lived in soon.

They settle under warm blankets, Abbie cuddled under Crane's arm, and watch Bridget Jones' Diary. At first, Abbie thinks he's chosen the film for her benefit, but thirty minutes into the film she catches him murmuring the lines to himself and realizes that he was completely serious when he'd introduced it as his "favorite movie." A later perusal of his DVD cabinet reveals films like Love Actually, 500 Days of Summer, and Titanic, and Abbie realizes that this frankly unhealthy obsession with romcoms may explain, well, everything about Crane. She laughs along with him, and when the movie is over, kisses him leisurely until she feels like she's going to melt right into the couch.

"So," Abbie asks, palm flat against his chest. "Are you a Cleaver or Darcy?"

"Hm?" The sound comes from low in his chest, and Abbie can feel it rumble against her.

"Cleaver or Darcy. You know, a smooth, flashy casanova? Or an eloquent, endearing, stick-in-the-mud?"

"Now now, isn't that harsh on poor Darcy?"

"Oh," Abbie purses her lips and pretends to ponder for a moment. "So, Darcy, then."

"No, no, certainly not," Crane says. "The Casanova, surely." His thumb draws lazy circles on her shoulder, and even though she can't see much of his face, she can tell he's smirking.

"You? A Casanova?" She scoffs.

"I'll have you know that all of the women I've been with have been far and away out of my league," Crane states matter of factly. "Only my razor sharp wit and irresistible charm have lured them to my side."

Abbie nudges his chest playfully. "You're a humble one."

"Humility has never been the strength of the Casanova, treasure."

"Fine, you can be a Casanova. But you're a pretty bad one, you know, seeing as you are yet to have your wicked way with me."

She'd meant to say it lightly, jokingly, but it comes out a little strained. Crane notices and stiffens underneath her.

"Abigail-" he chides.

"I know, I know, six days," she mutters back. There is a pause, and she extends a proverbial olive branch by wrapping an arm around him and squeezing. "Still. Definitely not a Casanova. You take after Darcy for sure. All those big words you use. That posh little English accent-"

Crane shifts her in his arms to look at her adoringly. He lifts a hand to push a strand of hair out of her eyes.

"Abbie, treasure," he whispers, "Do you think I don't want you?"

She's startled by his question. Abbie was so sure he'd take the out she'd given him, breathe a sigh of relief when he realized she wasn't going to press the issue. But he isn't taking the out at all; in fact, she's pretty sure he's turned it into an _in_. And then there's the matter of how he's looking at her, like she's the only thing that matters, like she is his entire world. The intensity stops the breath in her throat.

The mood has shifted so suddenly that Abbie thinks she has whiplash.

"No," she whispers.

Crane moves his hands down to the small of her back and presses her flush against him.

"Good. Because I do want you. Very much." He presses his lips to hers, once, twice. "You'd be absolutely scandalized if you could see what I do to you in my head, Abbie."

His lips skirt over her cheek and then open over her jawline, and she quickly moves her hands to grip his shoulders before he changes his mind. This time is different somehow from their usual high-school level hookups; his touches are more urgent, a tad rougher. He says that he wants her and she believes it because she can feel it. _'It's happening. Oh god. It's actually happening!'_

"Tell me," Abbie murmurs. He finds a sensitive spot on the base of her neck and nuzzles it slowly before nipping it, his tongue curling out to soothe the bite. "What exactly do you do to me?"

The sound Crane makes is a little like a growl, and it is animalistic and unrefined and the hottest thing Abbie has heard all night. Carefully, Crane turns them over on the couch so that he hovers over her. His lips drag over her collarbone, skimming lightly before pressing down wetly against it.

"You always undress for me," he whispers. "Slowly, mind. One article at a time. But you never let me touch you. It's maddening, because you are so beautiful, and so close, but I oblige you," he says, and he shifts himself again so that his mouth hovers over hers and she can feel his warm, ragged breaths meld with hers. "And finally, when you're bare, you call me to you."

"And then?" He slants his lips over hers the second the words are out of her mouth, and Abbie feels herself grow weak with the deliberate, hard way that he kisses now. "What happens then?"

He runs a hand down her leg and guides it up and around his waist. She can feel him now, hot and hard against the seat of her pants. She untucks his shirt hurriedly when he slowly begins to move, gently, in back and forth motions like a tide ebbing in and out, his mouth hovering over hers as they breathe in the same air. His gaze is intense, unblinking, and she realizes that she's matching it, staring at him right back, focusing entirely on him. Her hands glide up his back under his shirt, feeling warm, smooth skin, and latch onto his shoulders. He hits her just right, the ridge of his pants grinding against her, and it awakens something inside her, something feral and hungry, and she pushes back, following his motions.

"I kiss you," he demonstrates, opening his mouth against hers. "Like that, actually," his mouth wanders again, tucking itself into her neck. "I kiss you everywhere." His hands keep busy too, stroking up her sides soothingly, stopping right before her breasts before smoothing down to her hips again.

"Everywhere?" She asks, the implication clear in the hitch of her voice.

"Every last inch," he murmurs, and his mouth dips lower to the neck of her shirt.

It's getting hot, so Abbie shoves the blanket away and onto the floor. It falls with a thud, but Crane doesn't acknowledge it. When he pulls back his pupils are blown, and his face empty of all its usual mirth and positively emanating desire. It compounds the desire she feels, like fuel in a fire, and she rises up against him hard just as he bears down and hears her groans echoed in his.

The next five minutes are a blur. She unbuttons her shirt quickly and tosses it aside, and when he stares at her bared skin in admiration instead of touching her, she takes his hands and drags them over from her stomach to her breasts and sighs appreciatively when he squeezes in response. Sometime after that, his shirt joins hers, and then she's struggling with his belt, banging the buckle against her knuckles in her haste to feel him, and his hands are busy unzipping her skinnies. Distantly, she can hear him asking "may I?" over and over again, and all she can say is "yes," like a mantra, "yes, yes, yes, oh god yes." She undoes her bra, throws it dramatically over her head just to watch Crane's eyes widen. Her jeans come off, and he wastes no time in making good on his promise to kiss her all over, dragging his lips from hers down the column of her neck, making an extended pit stop at her breasts, swirling around her navel, pressing his mouth down her legs. His beard is softer than she expected, but still provides an extra texture that she's just now discovering she loves, and she mewls aloud when he playfully rubs his chin against her breastbone. His hands take the same path, albeit more slowly, more tenderly. He caresses her thighs worshipfully, squeezes.

"How are you so beautiful?" he says in wonder, looking her up and down as if he expects her to disappear.

She smiles. She's heard this from guys before, but something tells her he means it.

Then she reaches down, biting her lip, and cups him through his underwear.

Crane closes his eyes and stills his movements as she reaches inside, feeling him in her palm. He's hot and impossibly hard in her hand, and his skin velvet-soft. Gripping more tightly, she moves her hand up and down his shaft, closing her eyes as Crane shudders against her, stifling his moans in the crook of her neck.

"You feel...really nice," she says absent-mindedly. He doesn't respond, just rolls his hips into her hand, encouraging her. She slides her other hand in between them, running light touches through the sparse hair on his chest before dragging it up his neck and into his head of hair, and moves faster, feeding off the choked sounds he makes.

After a moment, he pulls back from her and presses his lips to hers almost chastely.

Then he slides down her body in one swift movement and lifts her legs over his shoulders.

"Is this okay?" He asks, in the voice of a starving man waiting to begin a feast. "I want to. I really want to."

Abbie has never been more okay with anything. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears, and she lifts her hips so he can peel off her lace underwear.

He doesn't dive in like she expected him to. Instead, he places gentle kisses to her inner thigh, runs his fingers wondrously through her folds and worries her clit with his thumb. He parts his fingers then, and she watches him examine the sticky fluid that strings between them.

"You're so wet," he says as if he'd expected differently, and Abbie thinks she's going to come before they can even get to the good part.

"Now," she says, gripping the back of his head to coax him forward. He needs little more encouragement, and the feel of his tongue against her clit is so overwhelming that she pulls away at first, but he drags her back down by her thighs, holds her as he kisses her, tugs at her lips, drags his tongue through her folds and pushes it inside her. Her moans are simultaneously distant and too loud in her ears; Abbie wants to send a thank you card to Crane's last girlfriend for the thorough education she must have given him. Her hips roll against his face, and she can feel herself climbing rapidly, getting so close...

"Stop stop stop," she breathes, pulling him up by the hair. He gives her a questioning look and flicks his tongue playfully against her once more, but she drags him up to her mouth.

"You got any...?" She asks breathlessly. She's throbbing and ready, so ready for him.

"Erm...no," he mutters back dejectedly, "I should have grabbed some..." And then a little more softly, "It has been a while, since-"

"Me too," Abbie says. They pull away from each other for a second, draw back to see each other's eyes.

"I've got an IUD in," she says softly, "And the last time I was with someone, I was clean."

Crane's hips are slowly rubbing into her thigh.

"Me too," he says.

"I trust you," she whispers. It's loaded. _'I trust you. Don't you dare prove me a fool.'_

"You can," he breathes.

She opens her legs underneath him invitingly. Crane doesn't miss a beat. He runs his hand up to her breast and squeezes appreciatively, then eases his way inside.

It's a tight fit, but God, does it feel right, and she wraps her legs tightly around him when he begins to move. He moves slowly and sinuously at first, as if he's trying to be gentle, but when she drags her blunt nails up his back he becomes a different animal, pounding into her with abandon, angling himself so that her clit hits his pubic bone with each thrust. It's hurried and urgent and she loves it, loves how he feels inside of her, loves how he has to wrap himself around her to reach her mouth, how his hands are so big on her small body that they seem to touch everything at once.

"Abbie," he growls, moving a hand to her thigh to hitch it up even higher.

She sighs against him, rolls her hips up to meet his. It's a dance she'd thought she'd forgotten, but like riding a bike, it's coming back.

"Please," she gasps when he gets something really right.

His thrusts deepen, she can feel him bottoming out inside of her, going as far as her body can take him, and she arches into him, dragging her hands through his hair.

"Abbie, love, I can't-"

"Just a second longer, baby, almost there-"

He sits up, driving into her in hard, short thrusts, and his fingers barely brush her clit before she's crying out her climax, her walls convulsing around him and squeezing his out of him as well. He thrusts in hard one more time, and then he's spilling inside of her, working his hips in circles and kneading her inner thighs before collapsing into her.

They just breathe for a moment. Lazily, Abbie pushes damp hair back from Crane's forehead and pushes him gently to his side, pulling him out.

"Fuck," Abbie finally says.

Crane chuckles against her collarbone.

"And here I was, thinking I could resist you for a few more days," he mumbles, panting.

"You did a good job trying," Abbie says. "Though I'm pretty sure you seduced me in the end there." She shudders, her body still reeling from the sensations it felt just a few minutes before.

"Cleaver through and through, I told you."

"Oh, you hush. That was a fluke." Abbie lowers her head to his chest and closes her eyes against his heartbeat.

They don't speak for a while, enjoying each other's warmth and basking in the afterglow.

"A pity, though. I had it all planned out for our last date. Rose petals, scented candles..." He presses a kiss to her cheek, "We were supposed to at least get to the bed," he says, in a playfully mournful tone.

Abbie hums contentedly. "Still can."

She's feeling so peaceful that she completely misses that Crane's serene smile has turned into a mischievous smirk until she's been rolled over and scooped up from the couch like a doll. Shrieking, she throws her arms around Crane's neck for balance, and Crane laughs bodily, his arms tightening around her as he carries her down the short corridor to his bedroom.

"We most certainly can."

He kicks the door shut.

Needless to say, she doesn't get back to Jenny's until the next morning.

First time ever, ever writing smut. 0/0 Let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Thanks so much for your awesome comments, and sorry for the long wait on this next chapter. You guys are the greatest!

Also, Crumptious is now Crumbtious, and I've been too lazy to go back to earlier chapters and fix it.

**Chapter 4**

To her credit, Jenny only spends thirty minutes making thinly-veiled innuendos about Abbie's night out. And to Abbie's credit, she can barely care. She's not sure whether it's because she'd spent an inordinate amount of time lusting after Crane pre-coitus, or because she's just coming out of a monumentally long dry spell, but sex with Crane is exactly the shit she's been waiting for, the kind that makes her toes curl just thinking about it. Jenny can make fun as much as she wants. It doesn't change the fact that Abbie just got truly and properly laid.

The party is that evening, and so Abbie helps around the house. Katrina has her hair back and is vacuuming the carpeted areas, and Abbie is on decoration duty, blowing up balloons until her cheeks hurt. Jenny is practically bouncing on her heels putting up streamers and chattering about the friends she's invited over. It's weird to see her so openly excited about something, and not for the first time, Abbie is so thankful that she took time off for this trip.

They pick up the food, Katrina gets wine and drinks, and everything is looking put together. Jenny beams over the table of selections and pops a cheese cube into her mouth.

"You invited your little paramour, right Abbie?" She says, reaching for another cube and smiling slyly when Katrina swats her hand away.

"Yes, I invited him," Abbie says hurriedly, "what about your friends? Who am I going to be awkwardly introducing myself to?"

Jenny lists off her friends on two hands, (her stick-up-the-butt boss being one of them) and adds the plus ones that she knows of. Katrina chimes in with "my old bandmates are in town," explaining in one unintentional statement her alternative red-violet hair and the heart tattoo Abbie had spied on her left hip a few days ago. Abbie isn't intimidated by the number of guests per se, but she isn't looking forward to the hours of small talk. Crane will be there though, so she will at least have an anchor, someone to fall back on if conversation stalls.

Finding an outfit that she hasn't already worn to one of her dates proves difficult, but she eventually pulls something together- a black v-neck, burgundy blazer and dark skinny jeans. She pulls on a pair of black heels and calls it a day, then steps back into the living room to find that one of their guests has already arrived. He's a tall black guy with lines in his face he looks far too young for and a smile that seems to come easily but not as often as it should. He's introducing himself to Katrina, shaking her hand and making a comment that makes her glow, and Abbie guesses, correctly, that this is Irving.

Irving must guess who she is as well, because he strides over to her hand outstretched a moment later.

"And you must be Abigail," he says drolly.

"Nice to meet you, Frank," she responds, her big, wide, customer-service smile on. He has a firm, simple shake.

Jenny pops out of the kitchen and hip-checks Irving from behind, smirking when he loses his balance, and they begin a practiced, affectionate banter that makes Abbie swell with happiness. Jenny is taken care of, she can tell. She has people she loves who love her back. Probably more people than Abbie does, Abbie discovers, as more people trickle in and greet Jenny with genuine enthusiasm, knocking their knuckles against the balloons and complimenting Katrina on her wall color choices. Soon, there are twenty or so friends milling around the apartment, chatting among themselves and nibbling on finger foods. Abbie does her best to make conversation, and is passed back and forth between groups who are all excited to meet Jenny's sister. It's a nice gathering, and only gets nicer after Jenny breaks out the wine and everyone gets just buzzed enough to ease their inhibitions. When they've worked through the first few bottles, Katrina hustles away to collect more.

Crane arrives thirty minutes late. Abbie guesses who it is before the door opens, mostly because of how Jenny throws her head over her shoulder to smirk at her before she answers it. Lifting her glass in mock salute, Abbie excuses herself from a conversation with Jenny's hot coworker, Devon, just as Ichabod steps inside.

Their eyes meet from across the room. She clears the distance between them, unnaturally aware of how his long legs look in his hipster-as-fuck burgundy pants. Legs that had been entwined with hers not even twenty four hours before...

He smiles down at her almost shyly and holds up a bottle of wine.

"Sorry that I'm late," he says, "I was trying to find something to bring."

Jenny snatches the bottle out of his hands and unwraps the brown paper protecting it.

"Holy crap," she says under her breath, "This is from 1950." The look she gives Crane is part wonder, part derision. "Dude, when someone invites you to a house party, you bring ten dollar Moscato. _Not aged Pinot_."

Crane looks intensely uncomfortable, as if the concept of 'what to bring to house parties' is entirely alien to him, and it occurs to Abbie that despite his rather...large personality, he really doesn't know how to do company. It explains the bareness of his apartment, the sorrow in his expression when he talked about England, his lonely trip across the Midwestern United States...

Crane doesn't have very many friends.

"Erm. I'm sorry, I was wondering if it was too much, but I can get something else-" he reaches for the bottle again, but Jenny holds it up and out of his reach, an eyebrow up in warning.

"Nah, I get it, trying to impress the sis, it's cool." She looks back down at the bottle again and blows an appreciative whistle. "This isn't for the guests, though. Just in case you were thinking you were getting some."

"Understood, Miss Jenny," Crane responds with a mock bow. Jenny looks at him like he's a particularly odd animal at the zoo, and then shakes her head as she walks away. Abbie and Crane watch her go, then turn back to each other.

Why the hell is she so nervous all of a sudden? They're in a crowded room, they've seen each other for hours every day for the last five days, and Abbie's never found him difficult to talk to. But now her tongue is inexplicably tied.

_'Two days. We have two days left.'_

"Hey," she finally manages. He looks down at her through his lashes.

"Hey," he parrots, and they both grin stupidly, because they're behaving like awkward college kids after a hook up and they both know it.

"Glad you could make it." She hadn't been scared he wouldn't show up exactly, but she had been a little uncertain- after all, dating a guy was one thing, but inviting him to meet her only family is another. She wouldn't have blamed him if he'd chosen to skip out, though she might have ditched his butt afterward if he'd done so without telling her.

Crane follows her into the dining room. She introduces him to the other guests as they go, who are all perfectly nice and easy-going now that they are on their third glasses of wine. They're all quite charmed by Ichabod's English accent and slightly archaic manner of speech, and though he doesn't talk very much, he seems to be enjoying himself. Poor Devon unfortunately reveals that he enjoys reading books on the American Revolution in his spare time, so Crane latches on to this like an octopus and begins what Abbie can describe only as "geeking out" over George Washington.

"Let's get some snacks," Abbie finally asserts, diving in and yanking Crane away from Devon before he can go on another tirade about the brilliance of Washington's military tactics. Crane looks a little put out, but Abbie gives him the most innocent, angelic smile she can muster, and so he completely misses the thumbs up Devon sends her as they're leaving.

"Most of the mini quiches are gone already," Abbie informs him, guiding him to the table where all of the food is laid out. "But there's still some good stuff. You already eat?"

"Yes, I did. Before I came," he says uncertainly, like he's worried that's the wrong answer.

"Good, because we aren't feeding you." Abbie picks up a mini cream puff and pops it into her mouth. It's light and fluffy and quite good, though it has nothing on Luke's cream puffs back at Crumbtious. She takes another and holds it up to Crane. "These are good. Here, try one."

There's a mischievous twinkle in Crane's eye, one she's seen before, and so she's not totally surprised when he leans over to eat it right from her fingers. He keeps it PG, plucking it out of them casually, and winks at her like it's their secret before he closes his eyes to appreciate the taste.

"This...confection. It's delicious. What is it?"

Abbie gives Crane a disbelieving look.

"It's a cream puff. Like, c'mon, Crane, this is dessert 101. You've never had a cream puff?"

Crane puffs up like a strutting rooster. "Excuse me for not being an expert on baked goods. Not all of us can be pastry connoisseurs, Miss Mills."

Abbie rolls her eyes and holds back a bark of laughter.

"Oh, don't get all prissy on me. You know what an eclair is? A canoli? You been eating dry scones with 'afternoon tea' all your life?"

"If you were attempting an English accent, I'm sorry to say that you have botched it quite beautifully-"

Abbie grins wickedly and purposely 'botches' it more.

"Oh, don't mind me, just stepping out for some fish and chips-"

Crane can't help but laugh now, though he tries to keep his face severe.

"Miss Mills-"

"It seems I shall require a brolley, the entirety of the Thames is pouring into the streets!"

"Miss Mills, you will stop," he says warningly, though his efforts to keep himself from laughing are making his eyes water, "You will stop right now, or I will make you stop."

The charge of that statement isn't lost on Abbie. She grins. She wants nothing more than for him to make her stop, right now, in the middle of Jenny's apartment.

"How do you do, good sir? I will require a coach to go-"

Abbie is interrupted by Crane's lips on hers. He kisses her much more gently than she'd expected, his hands cradling either side of her face. It's slow and soft and sweet, delivered almost like he can't help it. When they pull away, he smiles beatifically down at her, and her stupid heart swells for him-

A loud clatter pulls them from their adoring appraisal of each other.

Katrina stands at the other side of the table, her cheeks stained pink and a platter's worth of crackers spilled across the table. Her eyes are wide as orbs, but she doesn't look surprised or embarrassed to find her girlfriend's sister making goo-goo eyes at some guy by the snack table.

She looks guilty.

"Katrina?" Crane whispers, so softly that it takes Abbie an extra second to realize that _he knows her name. _

"Um. Excuse me. I didn't mean to. Um-" she tries to sweep the crackers back into the plate, but they crumble and splinter in her shaking hands.

Crane has left Abbie's side completely and clears the distance between himself and Katrina in three strides. She makes a choking sound and turns to leave, but he takes hold of her upper arms and holds her in place.

"Katrina. What are you doing here? Why are you here?"

Abbie jumps forward- there's a scary amount of anger locked into his body language and she doesn't like it. "Chill out, Crane, let go of her-"

"This is none of your business, Abigail!" He shouts.

At her.

He doesn't even bother looking at her. Doesn't apologize.

Abbie feels like she's underwater.

"Katrina!"

Underwater, watching everything from inside a glass tank. Removed, distant. She sees the humans move and their words are slow, their bodies warped. They are far away. They're shouting.

"Ichabod...I...I'm sorry, I only wanted to-"

"You only wanted to what?"

"I only hoped... I just wanted to see you again. To make sure you were doing all right. Living your life."

Katrina is beautiful when she cries. Her eyes are glass green, and even as the whites redden she only looks broken, like a precious doll. And the way Ichabod is holding her has gone from harsh and restricting to liquid and soft, and she's leaning into him and he's not leaning away.

"Why," Crane says, and he doesn't sound angry anymore, he's holding her close like he's done it a thousand times before, holding her tenderly, and that's when the glass shatters and the water floods out and Abbie can no longer breathe.

She's moving without commandeering her body, just getting away in search of air. Her lungs are constricting in her chest. Her mouth utters "excuse mes" as she pushes past the crowd of people who have come to investigate the source of noise, but she doesn't register who she's touching, who she's passing. She's on auto-pilot, not running, never running, that'd be too dramatic and she's never been that girl, smiling politely at people she passes, walking purposefully into the hall, into the guest room. She closes the door with a gentle click. Balls her hands into fists. Exhales.

Auto pilot turns off. Her hands are shaking, and she feels like someone has just dropped her off the side of a mountain without a parachute. She's felt heartbreak before, but fuck, nothing like this, nothing this cold and swift and sudden. Nothing ever like this.

He yelled at her, and couldn't even be bothered to apologize. He'd said he'd try with her and then held another woman in his arms.

Abbie feels used all of a sudden. And tired. So, so tired.

"Stupid." Abbie says aloud. There was a reason she'd not bothered with men for the last eight months, and this was it.

And she'd slept with him. Fuck. She'd slept with him and hadn't used protection, because for some idiotic reason she had trusted him to actually care about her. Fuuuuuck. What could have possibly inspired such stupidity?

Thinking is making her head hurt, so she decides not to. Outside, she can hear that Crane's little scene has done little to dampen the party, and she prays that Jenny doesn't do something stupid like kick everyone out because her big sis got burned by what she will henceforth refer to as a one night stand. Abbie pops in her headphones and turns on some Ke$ha- trashy party girl ballads are the way to go for bruised hearts- then pulls off her heels. She arranges them carefully at the side of her bed, peels out of her blazer and her skinnies and dives under the covers.

_'Sleep it off'_, Corbin used to say, when Abbie would come home after an altercation with an idiot boy biting back tears. _'Feel what you need to feel, then sleep. When you wake up tomorrow, look back and start working on moving forward.'_

_'You're a strong girl, Abbie Mills. You can do it.'_

She doesn't feel strong. She feels defeated.

* * *

It couldn't be peaches and sunshine for the whole ride. Sorry guys! ;) This chapter is pretty short, and so is the next, so I'll try to update quickly this time around!

Let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Thanks so much for all of the feedback! I grin like a maniac at all of y'alls reviews. Also, let me holla at the people following/ favoriting this fic! You're all great. :)

**Chapter Five**

"Abs," a soft voice and a hand on her shoulder nudge her awake.

Abbie opens her eyes. One earbud is still in, and Kesha's Blow is playing at low volume. She turns her head groggily and meets Jenny's concerned gaze, and everything comes flooding back to her, the way Crane had yelled and cast her aside, Katrina's red-eyed tears, her tearless, robotic retreat into the guest room. She swallows all of that down and tries on a smile for size.

"Looks like I conked out," she says, "Party end well?"

Jenny gives her a flat look. "No, Abbie, you know it didn't. Stop it."

"Stop what?" Having been exposed as a fraud, Abbie's smile slides off her face. The moment it falls, she feels raw again, flayed, as if it had provided a veneer of protection.

"Stop acting like nothing's wrong. I'm not an idiot." Jenny yanks away her covers. The cold air is sharp on her skin. "C'mon. Get up. I made you breakfast."

"You didn't have to," Abbie says, warring between being selfish and staying in bed and heaping her sister with the gratitude she honestly deserves for going through all this trouble for her. She decides on the latter, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. She checks the time. It's eleven. She'd been out for almost ten hours.

"Yeah well, you'd have done the same," Jenny says with a shrug, standing. It's then that Abbie notices her sister is wearing an apron, and a pink floral one at that. It looks odd amongst its backdrop of Jenny's constant black, grey and greens.

"That Katrina's?" Abbie asks flatly.

"Yeah," Jenny murmurs. Her mouth twists strangely. "She isn't here right now, if that's what you're worried about. She spent the night at a friend's."

Abbie feels something swell in her chest. 'She kicked out her girlfriend for me?' "You didn't have to...do that."

"Yeah, I did." Jenny walks through the door, "C'mon, breakfast is getting cold."

Breakfast turns out to be whole wheat pancakes, eggs (fried overhard, just like Abbie likes them), and sausage patties. They eat in the living room instead of at the table, and Abbie is grateful for this- she needs disorder and comfort, not formality, right now. The Price is Right is on, and it reminds her of the days she'd stayed home from school sick and swaddled in blankets when it had been the only program showing. The contestant, a gangly, eggshell-white man with a Seahawks cap, is getting extraordinarily bad spins. The sisters chew in relative silence, fixated on the screen and cringing when he gets sent off stage empty-handed.

"She's his ex-wife," Jenny says matter-of-factly when it cuts to commercial break.

Abbie drops her fork. "Excuse me?"

"Ichabod? Yeah. He was married to my girlfriend until about three years ago. Apparently he was crazy about her, treated her well, but something wasn't right. Mainly that she was a huge lesbian," Jenny turns to her, lip curled in a bitter smile. "So she ran. Sent him divorce papers and a note saying she wasn't coming back. That was three years back. He just signed them seven months ago."

This is a lot to take in. Jenny has a habit of dropping her truths in bombs, but this one is different. It's nuclear.

"His...ex-wife?" Abbie breathes out slowly. "He never mentioned that he'd been married." And he'd told her practically everything else, about his childhood, his friends in university, even the Barbie doll he had as a child. How the hell do you leave being a recent divorcee out of all that?

"Yeah, well, neither did Kat." Jenny looks at Abbie from the corner of her eye and grins ruefully. "I guess we know how to pick 'em."

Reality hits her sidelong with the weight of an 18-wheeler. Abbie has known Ichabod for days. Jenny and Katrina have been together for six months, and had spent six months prior pussyfooting around their attraction for each other. They'd been living together, and comfortably. Jenny had been so happy. And then Abbie went and brought Crane into their lives and mucked absolutely everything up.

Abbie should have been the one out of the bed and making her sister breakfast, not vice versa.

"Will you..." Abbie said hesitantly, scooting a little closer to her, "be okay?"

Jenny's smile is instantaneous and would seem mocking on any other face. On her, it's bold, as if she's proud of herself. "You worried?"

"I mean...yes?"

"Don't be." Jenny points at her with her fork. "I'm pissed. I'm pissed and I'm hurt, but I don't know, me and Kat are really good together, and I'm not going to give that up because she's kept things from me."

"But-" Abbie remembers Katrina's glassy eyed stare, the way she'd sipped her tea guiltily after telling Abbie to invite Ichabod Crane to their housewarming party. "But she planned this. I'm not trying to hate on your love, Jenny, but she knew this was going to happen! She told me," she hissed this part through her teeth, the sting of her manipulation still fresh, "to bring him here."

"I know that, Abbie," Jenny says firmly. "C'mon, try to understand. She still cares about him. They were good friends before; he was in love with her, and she thought she could love him. She couldn't. But she wanted to see whether he was okay. When he finally turned in the papers...she thought it meant he'd let her go, that it would finally be a good time." Jenny pauses, and for a moment, she looks a little uncertain. "That's what she told me, at least, and I'm gonna choose to believe her."

Abbie's head hurts. "She thought getting her girlfriend's sister to invite him to her housewarming party after not talking to him for three years was a good idea."

Jenny shakes her head mournfully. "She's an absolute idiot."

"That's one way to put it." Abbie stabs her last piece of pancake so hard that the

"I know it's an understatement."

"Then why are you staying with her? She up and abandoned him, how do you know she won't do it to you, too?"

Jenny's eyes turn dark. "Well, you're one to talk, aren't you?"

Her words cut deeper than any knife could have, and Abbie sits with her mouth agape, at a loss for words.

"I didn't mean that," Jenny says flippantly, but the damage has already been done, because she did mean it, and she's right, Abbie did abandon her, and she's being a real hypocrite to pretend otherwise.

"It's okay," Abbie whispers. "You're right. I'm sorry- I just... I trusted him. I don't do that often, not so soon, and I decided to change that, lighten up, and..."

"You got burned." There's a hand on hers then, and Abbie looks up and meets her sister's sympathetic face. Abbie squeezes her, then leans forward until her forehead is against Jenny's shoulder. She smells like lavender body wash and maple syrup. Jenny's arm comes around her and pulls her closer, and Abbie folds into her. When she shuts her eyes she can almost pretend she's a scared little girl again, and Jenny is Momma, shielding her from the world.

Years of silence had passed between them before Abbie had finally sought her sister out again. She'd spent so long convincing herself that she didn't really need Jenny that she'd believed it. She'd lied to herself so well.

"I'm sorry," Abbie repeats. "I'm so, so sorry."

"You're forgiven," Jenny murmurs into her neck, and for the first time Abbie knows she means it.

Two days later, Abbie holds her sister close in front of the double doors leading to her terminal.

"I'll miss you," Jenny says sincerely.

"I'll miss you too, boo." And she will. Fiercely. It's been too long since Jenny was her best friend.

* * *

Crumbtious has not, in fact, burned down in Abbie's absence, though the display cases aren't quite as well arranged as she would prefer. Her presence is certainly missed, however; Luke, for all his charm, is actually terribly disorganized with anything other than his cakes and does a good job botching scheduling for the next week. He greets her with a tight hug and a sheepish "help," and she laughs and shakes her head because she remembers the last time she tried to do his job in the kitchens and managed to burn three dozen cupcakes. They are a team for a reason, she reminds him, then sets out to clean up his mess.

Abbie immediately throws herself into her work, into making the sweet little bakery shop bigger, prouder, louder. Three weeks in and she's found them a delivery car to better endear Crumbtious to lazy or less mobile college students, and the rise in profits is so staggering that she starts looking into food trucks as well. They start appealing to local businesses and schools to provide desserts in their cafés, and Abbie's days are spent shuttling from meeting to meeting, shaking hands, delivering samples, and working on contracts with her taciturn but genuine lawyer-turned-financial advisor, Andy.

For the two weeks back, Crane calls her every night, faithful as clockwork. She wears herself out on purpose, hops into the shower at nine every night so that she's not tempted to answer. She deletes his contact, but it doesn't take long for her to memorize his number when it lights up her screen.

"Just block him," Jenny suggests when Abbie complains to her about her one-night stand's inability to remain as such.

It would be so easy to block him. It would be a clear message, an undeniable rejection to him, a sign that she was cutting him out of her life. She'd never have to worry about her phone lighting up at nine every night. She could move on.

She shouldn't miss him as much as she does.

_'Five days, girl. You knew him for five days. Get. A. Grip.'_

His smile is burned into the back of her eyelids when she sleeps. It always curls up in one corner of his mouth a split second before reaching the next, and when he looks up at her from behind his lashes it is as though they are co-conspirators. His wider grins are surprisingly boyish; his canines baby-teeth-jagged and pointing ever so slightly over his bottom lip. She goes to sleep and all she can see is him smiling at her in a thousand ways a thousand times, his eyebrows raising mischievously, the low timbre of his voice as he growls, "Is that so, Miss Mills" and churns her insides into butter.

* * *

"Would you like to get lunch, Abbie?" Andy says suddenly. They are sitting in his office, going over Crumbtious' profits for the month and discussing how Abbie can build capital for retirement when he asks. Abbie is shocked into stunned silence for just a beat too long; by the time she's recovered she can already see the embarrassment begin to creep into Andy's face.

In high school, Andy had been the definition of a wallflower: smart but not so much that he stood out, quiet, a little awkward. She also remembers him as incredibly kind; once in their junior year, a freshman tripped and accidentally hit Andy in the face with her pizza, and rather than make a fuss, he'd stayed a minute to help her clean the mess and even bought her another slice. Abbie'd been in US history with him, and they'd studied together a few times after school, but they didn't really keep up after he'd gone to college. Corbin had hired Andy to advise the business practically two days after he started working at the firm, mostly for a lark, but also because he'd wanted to help him impress his bosses.

The years have changed Andy, but not too much. He's still impossibly kind, just a little less reserved and a little more confident. When he berates her for trying too much too soon with the business, it is firmly and assertively, not hesitantly and delicately like it would have been long ago. He still seems to get a bit flustered when he speaks to her about anything personal, but he doesn't look away like he used to.

And he's grown up quite nicely. Like many a hot-blooded heterosexual woman, Abbie has a good appreciation for men in well-tailored suits, and Andy wears his _impeccably_. So if she stares too long when he stands up from his desk to shake her hand at the end of each of their meetings, well, it's because she can't help it, and obviously he does it on purpose to make her notice, there's absolutely no reason for him to be wearing fitted suits and skinny ties for this job...

"Sure," she finally stammers. "I mean, I'd like that."

* * *

When it becomes obvious that Abbie is not going to answer her phone ever, Ichabod gives up on daily calls. Instead, He tries something much more nefarious.

Every other day, as though he's trying to haunt her, he leaves a message on voicemail. He always calls her house phone, so that she's forced to hear his sonorous voice echoing off her walls every time she time ignores his call.

It's selfish, Abbie thinks. She's obviously through with him, why does he keep trying to push his way into her life? It's almost creepy; she had an ex boyfriend before Luke who had done the same thing, constantly blowing up her phone despite their rather enthusiastic, if not entirely mutual, break up, and she'd nearly pulled a restraining order on him.

But Abbie listens to them anyway, closes her eyes and shutters herself away from the world while his crisp British baritone voice speaks sweet nothings into her ear.

The first few are apologies. They are sweetly spoken, self-deprecating, heart-breaking.

_'I was a fool, Abbie, on a fool's errand. I don't want to lose you, and it is selfish of me to even ask you to consider speaking to me. But remember when you said you wanted to try with me? I'm asking now, please, give me another chance. Let me try.'_

When she doesn't respond to those, they become one-sided conversations of sorts. He tells her about bringing home Darcy, the terrier mix he'd told her he'd adopted, about the messes of words his freshmen students try to pass off as essays to her. He's redecorating the apartment, or at least his new coworker Abe is, because apparently it looks too much like a sterile movie set than it does an actual home.

He never mentions Katrina, though. He apologizes for his rudeness, goes on about how Abbie didn't deserve to be treated the way he'd treated her, but he doesn't provide explanations. He doesn't say he regrets it.

He doesn't say, "Next time, I'll choose you. And the time after that."

So Abbie doesn't call him back.

* * *

Her date with Andy goes unexpectedly well. Perhaps because they already know each other quite well and have no need for niceties, perhaps because he treats her so gently, like glass, like something precious. Abbie's not used to that from men; they've always assumed she is resilient, durable as rubber, and they're right, she is, but there's something special about the soft way Andy looks at her that makes her cheeks warm.

It's not the rush that Crane gave her, not the butterflies and whirling hormones she'd gotten from her ghost (because that is what he is now, a ghost, invisible but constantly leaving indelible signs of his presence), but it's more than she's used to feeling from anyone else. _'He's your advisor, Abbie, don't go mixing business and pleasure if this is a rebound,'_ she tells herself.

And at first, that is exactly what it is, a rebound. When Andy holds back from touching her, it is truly out of timidity and not to drag her out until she's panting. He doesn't accept compliments the way Crane does, with that easy swagger that says _'yes, I know I am a handsome bugger;'_ Andy fumbles his words and turns distinctly pink and laughs nervously. At first, it's kind of exasperating; she wants to yell at him to chill the fuck out and just accept it when she says "you look nice today." Soon, though, it gets endearing. Abbie likes watching him get tongue-tied and flustered every time she says anything even mildly suggestive, derives a wicked pleasure from plucking at his heart strings _just so_ and watching them quiver.

And Andy knows her in ways Crane never could. She never has to force with Andy, to push; he seems hyper aware of her moods, her needs, even her thoughts. (It's as though he's been watching her for years, and Abbie has a distinct feeling that he has.) He knows exactly how she's feeling almost before she can feel it and comes in with silent solutions; a chunk of dark chocolate dropped off at her desk the morning after her period starts, fingers brushing her own when a customer is being particularly prickly and her false smile is beginning to turn feral. He picks up on her habits within a week of seeing her; how she likes her coffee (three packets of Splenda, no cream), that she digs under her fingernails when she's bored. He pays attention. And so she does in turn, taking note of the fact that he wears those splendid suits because he's long ago learned that looking good helps him feel ready to take on the world, that when his eyes crinkle up just so he's definitely laughing at her even if his mouth doesn't move, that he taps his fingers against the table when he's feeling impatient and goes for a run every morning at 7am if he can help it.

Soon, she stops thinking in terms of 'Crane' and 'Andy.' When Andy fumbles his words or is unnecessarily self-deprecating a voice doesn't flash in her mind reminding her that 'Crane would never say that, the arrogant asshole.' The first time Andy kisses her, she doesn't think about how Crane's hands on her face had been firm, not shuddering, how Crane's lips were usually a little chapped but Andy's are smooth and soft.

In fact, she stops thinking of Crane entirely.

Except for every other night at 9 pm, when he calls and tells her about his day, chuckling and making jokes as if she's not been ignoring him for the past month and a half.

* * *

**A/N:** Let's be completely honest here—I'm not too happy with canon Ichaboo right now, and I think Andy's one of those characters who I think the WRITERS don't write in character. (Yes, I know that they created him, but his character doesn't really make sense. Sometimes they make him seem like he and Abbie were really close and that he was a really good guy, and sometimes he's the creepy friendzoned dude who sold his soul to protect(?) Abbie.) I was THIS CLOSE to being cruel and making Abbie+Andy (Mooks? Brills? Abdy? What the hell is this ship's name?) endgame in this fic. Thank your lucky stars my Ichabbie love won over.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Luke and Abbie spend two weeks searching for a used food truck. The "development fever" Abbie has contracted is contagious, and her partner in crime has most certainly caught it; he's even submitted an application to put Crumbtious on Cupcake Wars. (Abbie finds this hilarious; she'd pay good money to see Private Luke Morales with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow in a bright pink room freaking out about his banana-cream licorice cupcakes not rising.) They've had a good relationship for a while, but this newfound zeal only seems to cement it, and so Luke feels no embarrassment in turning to her in the middle of her musings about how to decorate the truck and asking, "So what's with you and Brooks?"

They don't talk about their other relationships on principle. Abbie looks at him from the corner of her eye, one brow raised, because this is one rule she thought he would never break.

"None of your business, Morales," she says snidely, then barrels on as if he'd never asked. "Where do you even go to order decals for trucks? We need to look into that-"

"Abbie," Luke clips. She whips around to face him, hands on her hips.

"Honestly," she mumbles, looking down and pursing her lips. "We're seeing each other, okay?"

"Why now?" Luke's arms are folded over his chest, and Abbie recognizes the look on his face as concern. "He's been wagging his tail at you for the last four years. Why start something up now?"

"Yeah, well, he never asked me before, did he?" But she knows exactly what he's getting at; Abbie has known Andy has held her on some special pedestal since he started working with Crumbtious, and possibly even before that.

"Something happened in Boston," Luke says. He says it like it's a fact, and Abbie winces, because it is, and she thinks really maybe this is why you shouldn't work with your exes.

"_Nothing_ happened in Boston-"

"You never cared about seeing anyone before. There were some pretty cool guys who were trying to get your attention, and you just blew them all off. Then you go to Boston, come back and fall right into Andy Brook's long-waiting arms." Luke takes a step closer. "So. What happened in Boston."

Abbie blows out a huff of air through her nose. This is such a strange setting to be having this conversation- in the middle of a garage, staring at a scraped down, retired white food truck, just she and her surly baker ex-boyfriend.

"I met someone," she admitted. "I was stupid. It got intense really fast, and then it ended." Abbie cut Luke a harsh glare. "Satisfied?"

The look on Luke's face is far from what she expected- not leering, not triumphant, just...apprehensive.

"Abbie..." He steps towards her again. His hand hovers over her shoulder for a split second before making contact. "Are you okay?"

"No." Abbie shakes her head, turns to face the truck. _'I close my eyes and I see him, and I hear his voice echoing through my house and I hate him and I love him and what the fuck is wrong with me.'_ "I'm not okay, but I'm trying to be."

"Oh." Luke sounds surprised that he didn't get an evasive answer, and she takes some pleasure in the fact that maybe he can't read her as well as he thinks.

Then, "We're friends, right, Abbie?"

Abbie looks up at him, at the face of the man she'd once thought she'd loved. That had been years ago, when they'd been both young and stupid. They've been through so much since then, grown into adults while running Crumbtious. She'd be a mess without Luke. _Friends_ didn't even quite cut it.

"Of course," Abbie says anyway. "Of course we're friends."

"Then you know you can talk to me. I know you think it's stupid, but I really don't mind."

Something inside of her chest warms.

"Thanks, Luke."

He looks steadfastly at the truck.

"No problem."

They stand in silence. The garage echoes with the sounds of cars barreling through the floors above them.

"Break up with Brooks," Luke states. "He's in love you. It's not fair to him."

The concept of leaving Andy rankles her. She's grown used to his furtive smiles, chocolates on her desk and his gentle hand in hers.

"You have to, Abbie."

He's right. Abbie knows she's right. She's not available, not yet.

But she could be. In a couple of months, even weeks, she could forget about Ichabod completely. She could block his number, allow herself to fall for Andy completely. It could happen. It would happen_. 'It is happening.'_

* * *

Andy beats her to the punch.

They are lounging in her living room watching reruns of Mad Men, when her house phone begins to ring. She's had a couple of glasses of wine and is stretched out on his lap like a sunbathing cat, cozy and comfortable, so she ignores it like she always does, waving Andy off when he looks at her questioningly.

The second the phone stops ringing, she realizes her mistake.

"Abigail," Crane's voice echoes through the house. "Abbie. I know I've been trying for weeks. I know you're probably tired of me. But please pick up. Just once. I would like nothing more than to hear your voice, even if just to tear me apart-"

Andy's eyebrows are lifting at an unprecedented rate. Abbie scrambles up from the sofa and races to the answering machine, but she's losing time, he's saying more things, that the Brown students are about to go on Fall break so he has a couple of days off and _is coming to St. Louis oh god_ and if he could just see her face one more time that would be fine, he would be happy with that-

She can't figure out how to turn off her answering machine without answering the phone on accident. Her eyes scour the machine for the right button, but she comes up empty. Exasperated, she reaches for the outlet.

"I've had time to think, time to move on, but I can't, Abbie. I can't stop thinking about you. I'm...I'm quite sure that I love y-"

His voice cuts off, and Abbie stares wildly down at her hands, where she holds the power chord. Her heart is racing. Fuck.

Andy is right behind her. He takes the chord out of her hands calmly, places it on the countertop. His fingers brush hers tenderly as he does, and then reach up to push her hair out of her eyes. He lifts her chin gently to force her to meet his gaze.

"Abbie," he says, his voice like the calm before a storm, "Who was that?"

Her eyes cut away from Andy's. Her mouth opens, she's trying to say, "No one," but the words don't come.

"Abbie," Andy repeats. "There's a guy calling you who says he loves you. Who is he?"

She turns round eyes up to Andy. She's at a loss for words. Who _is_ Crane? He's quite literally some guy she messed about with for a few days. How do you tell your current boyfriend that you're still stuck on someone who you never really had a claim to in the first place? Someone you barely got to know?

Abbie settles for his name. "Ichabod Crane," she whispers.

This is obviously not the answer Andy needs, and he leans in, takes her hand in his. When he speaks, his voice is saturated with pain. Abbie winces; she's causing him to go through this.

"Abbie," he says, "who is he _to you_?"

_Lie to him Abbie come on_

The truth tumbles forth before she can stop it.

"A guy I met...in Boston. We started seeing each other and..." She gestures weakly to the answering machine. "It didn't work out."

That seems to mollify Andy a little bit, but not much.

"How often does he call?" He says.

"About every other day," Abbie murmurs.

"And you've told him to stop?"

The tense way she grabs at her shirt sleeve gives her away before her words can. Andy's calm facade breaks away, and he runs his hand through his hair and starts to pace, back and forth, two steps each way. Then he stops, pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth, hands on his hips, and looks down at her.

"You haven't told him to stop."

"Andy-"

"Don't." Andy waves her off. He takes a moment to compose himself, blows out a hard breath of air. "Why...why haven't you told him to stop?"

There are tears rolling down her face. She doesn't have an answer for him; she barely has one for herself, and she can see the end barreling toward her like a late train at a cold subway station.

"Do you...you know, love him too? This Ichabod Crane guy."

It takes Abbie a full minute to answer. Her voice is just barely above a whisper.

"I...don't know."

Andy doesn't make a sound, but his eyes cut away from her so sharply that she knows she's just witnessed the exact second she breaks his heart. She feels like she's bumped into a prized vase and is staring down at the thousands of shards left on the floor. There's no turning back; she's destroyed something irreparable. They'll never be the same. The tears come faster.

His next question is quieter.

"Do you...love me?"

Abbie looks up at him, at this man who's always been there for her, straddling the sidelines and never asking for anything but her friendship and meaning it, who is considerate and kind and beautiful and who touches her with reverence and isn't afraid to be led and blushes red when she tells him _his ass looks great in those_ _jeans_ and realizes she knows the answer.

"Yes, Andy, I do, I really do."

His hands reach for her face and pull her in close. Abbie draws herself up to her tiptoes and kisses him back. His mouth is hard and unrelenting on hers, and his hands go from holding her face to his to sliding down her waist. His arms lock around her tight, and hers loop around his shoulders, her fingers delving into his hair. Andy has never kissed her like this, never with this much passion, and she doesn't want him to stop kissing her because she knows what will happen when he does. So when he pulls away for air she snatches him back, drags her lips over his and seals his mouth shut so that he can't say _those_ words. Her back digs into the granite countertop, and he hoists her up so that they're more evenly matched, not breaking up for air, and she drags her leg slowly up his. _We'll go back to the room and make love and he'll forgive me-_

It's as if Andy hears her thoughts. He grabs ahold of Abbie's leg before it can trek any higher, and he leans his forehead against hers, breathing heavily. Then-

"I can't do this."

The breath leaves her chest. "Andy..."

He tears away from her and steps away, not facing her.

"Abbie, I can't do this. You...know I've always loved you. I've wanted this for a long time. I've wanted _us_ for a long time. But I can't be with you like this."

Something desperate is rising in her chest, and Abbie pushes off the counter and steps toward him.

"Like what, Andy? Like what?" Her voice sounds reedy and strained in her ears. Pleading. She's pleading. She doesn't want him gone.

"Are you kidding, Abbie? You know what I mean!"

"I just told you that I love you, Andy, of course I don't know what you mean!"

A flash of ferity crosses Andy's face, replaced quickly with frustration.

"Like…Like I'm your god damned second option!"

His shout echoes through the kitchen, bounces off the walls and the truth of it sends a chill down Abbie's spine. She wants to say that he isn't her second option at all, that he's her first, but inside she knows that she and Andy would never have been a thing if she hadn't returned to St. Louis licking her wounds. She wants to say that if Crane materialized in front of her with a bouquet of roses and the right words, she'd brush him off and waltz off with Andy, but she can't honestly say that that's true either.

When Abbie looks back up at him, he looks exhausted.

"Abbie," he says, his voice raspy with overuse. "We're through, okay? We're through."

"Yeah?" Abbie finally says, feeling her walls rise. "Fine." She rubs away her tears, transforming a particularly pathetic sniffle into a heave of breath. "Fine."

Andy's eyes visibly soften. "Look, Abbie, this doesn't have to affect the business-"

"Don't be ridiculous, Andy, of course this'll affect the business." What did he think, that she was just going to casually stroll into his office for their weekly scheduled appointment as if nothing had happened? "I'll find another advisor and get out of your hair." A smile slips onto her face, easy and false on her wet face. "So don't worry about Crumbtious. It'll be okay."

She recognizes that she's just told him she doesn't need him, that Crumbtious doesn't need him. She says it partly to hurt him, but also to reassure herself.

"I think I should leave," Andy says quietly.

"Yeah," Abbie mutters back. She doesn't watch him gather his jacket from the sofa, just listens as he rustles about the living room collecting his things. She hears the jingle of his car keys, the sound of his breath heaving. She feels him step up to her, as if to say something else, but she lifts a hand to wave him off. He sighs heavily, and then his steps are getting distant and the front door swings open and clicks shut.

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry for the long break between updates! I did it for you guys' sakes, I swear. I try to keep my writing about a chapter ahead of what I post, just so I don't end up abandoning the story halfway and making a lot of people mad at me. But I'm also going to be honest and say that time and distance has made me really annoyed with Sleepy Hollow, and with Ichabod in general, and I'm not really that inspired by the source material anymore? I forgave a lot of the problematic elements because the Mills sisters were just so awesome, but that finale has permanently messed me up. (Also this horrifying thing has happened where I don't find Tom Mison that attractive anymore? Like I think I initially only thought he was cute because Ichabod was so adorable, but like in the later episodes I kind of actively dislike him, and that is making getting my fanfic mojo going difficult.) So updates are likely to be slow/ show up when I finish my Mad Fat Diary fic. :P


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